


Après

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: 2nd Time Around (TMNT 2014) [13]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Bay Movies), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Family Reunions, First Time (Making Love), Human/Turtle Offspring, Human/Turtle Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, New Beginnings, Reunion between Teacher and Student, Unexpected News
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 04:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17176019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: The after, in four parts.





	1. Justice

**Author's Note:**

> Après: French for "after". And so the aftermath comes.
> 
> ***
> 
> To my beloved readers, you waited long enough for this...I hope it proving worthy of your patience. Please review, and I look forward to seeing you in the new year as this story continues!

“How bad was it?”

Stephen Valdez heaves a suffering exhale and shifts pressure away from his most-bruised sections in search of what tiny pinprick of comfort might be found; between his body (which feels like it’s been beaten nine ways to Hell) and this damned chair which feels like a concrete slab against his nether-regions, it’s a lost cause. “Three dead. Two still in the hospital. And I’m bruised in places I didn’t even know I had.”

The man on the other side of stained Plexiglass shakes his head and leans back. “Let me guess…Marx is riding your ass.”

“Not sure I’ve got much of one left.”

Dominic snorts, “I’ll refrain from making a full examination.” His face looks worn and pale, with only one hour of sunlight permitted every day, but the humor of this moment (however ill-placed) seems to lighten the heavy lines around his mouth. It feels like days long-since-past: late hours spent around the bullpen, the renowned veteran detective and the then-novice beat cop swapping stories and exchanging well-earned advice.

The circumstances have changed, but the dynamic remains. It is, strangely enough, a comfort.

“Tell me you at least got the bastards.” Dominic continues; there’s a stern gleam in his eyes and it’s easy enough for Stephen to forget, even briefly, there isn’t a badge strapped to the man’s waist.

“Few of them didn’t make it.” Stephen answers; in the interests of confidentiality and an open investigation, he can’t actually talk about rumors around the precinct of vigilantes at work. “The rest are rounded up, including their mountain of a leader; judge has ‘em on a no-bond hold.”

“Good.” A pause, then – in a much softer tone – “And Celine?”

“Wasn’t involved.” Stephen says, with enough vehemence to communicate honesty. “She showed up after the fact; kept my head from falling off both shoulders.” The younger man’s lips quirk a bit in a smirk, “Then showed up at the hospital to rip Marx a new one.”

Dominic grins, and finally the weary lines of imprisonment fade to the complexion of years since-past: when the bullets in his gun were fired only in the name of Justice, and his heart hadn’t abandoned the dream of happy endings.


	2. Confession

She awakens to cold winter chill – from the window left open all night – and the dry weight of Mikey’s arm slung over her bare waist. His breathing is low and heavy: a rumbling snore vibrating in the air around them. Uninspired to move just yet, Angel simply keeps her eyes closed and focuses on the nearest sensations: the odd texture of his skin, the thrum of his heart, the chill in the air…

Her limbs ache, the unfamiliar weight of him within an extended embrace leaving invisible imprint on muscles. On her shoulders, in the dip of clavicle bone, she feels the dried mark of tears-shed. Memories of last night, and the three nights prior, are fragments across her recollection; there is overlap to each night, so much so that she can’t differentiate between them anymore.

Except last night. That was the first time they…

“Hey…” he mutters; kisses the back of her neck. The arm slung loose over her waist tucks closer, fitting her flush to him as they were last night.

“Hey.” Angel murmurs; one hand squeezes his arm with gentle affection, “sleep okay?”

“Better.” The usual one-liners and easy-going attitude are lost; he hasn’t been himself ever since the jail massacre, and while she wouldn’t ever admit it aloud, Angel is afraid he may never recover from the trauma. It bothers her, that she isn’t more affected; that she and Celine have seemed otherwise (for want of a better word) neutral amidst the brutality. The brothers have been tossed by this storm, each in their own way, and yet here she stands like a statue of ice.

Perhaps she is too ruined for Mikey: his kindness, his good heart, his childlike joy and unchecked enthusiasm. Perhaps the years of watching family die, one by one until there were no more, and the months of slavery: a higher placement, a position of authority, but always wearing chains and always destined to watch the loss of innocence…including her own.

“I love you.” It’s a soft whisper, so much so that she doesn’t hear it as much as she feels it against her nape: a soft puff of sound filled with fragile confidence, that his confession will not be rejected. That she will accept it, because of course she will, because their feelings for each other are so obvious, so pure and perfect, that she can’t help but accept his confession…his heart.

“I love you too.”


	3. Improbability

“It’s impossible.”

The words hit air, and April cringes at the mark each syllable makes on her ears. She did it wrong. Maybe there was no distinctly ‘right’ way to handle this, to speak a confession she’s been hoarding for a week with pangs of uncertainty cramping deep in her gut, but still…she did it wrong. If she hadn’t done it wrong, these would not be the first words uttered in response to her admittance.

“Don,” she weakly attempts; her hands are shaking, and while she wants to touch, to enfold herself in his arms and soak up the comfort he alone can give, she doesn’t dare, not with the look on his face currently sinking her deeper and deeper into despair, “Donnie, I…”

He doesn’t seem to hear her, “It’s…It’s an absolute improbability. There…There is no feasible way…”

“Donnie, please…” the tears are hot in her eyes, blurring details into a multi-colored haze, “ _Please_ stop…”

“The…the percentage of likelihood is miniscule. Microscopic.” He continues, dangerously close to babbling, without any apparent comprehension of her agony, “Not even…there’s not even a…not even a possibility, let alone—”

“Donatello, _stop_!” a sob cracks around his name, “Please… _please_ , don’t think of this like a failed experiment or some freakish occurrence. It…it’s not. It…” the tears are hot on her cheeks, and she crumples to the floor with a single hand on her kitchen counter for meager support, “…I just wanted you to be happy.”

A silence, perhaps the most agonizing she’s endured to date, follows. She can’t bear to lift her head and examine any changes to his expression; her imagination, tossed and tormented, envisions horrible things – from disgust to rage to…

“I am happy.”

Feeling physically struck, as if by a great and vicious weight, April exhales sharply. Her hand clasps over parted lips, not trusting the first words to be the best. A beat, and then she lowers the shaking hand to the thick rug cushioning her knees from hardwood planks. “…W…What?”

Through the haze of tears, she can’t make out the details of his face, save that he has moved closer; she feels his proximity in shallow breaths and the trembling skimming brushes of his hands over her wrists, arms, and shoulders to rest at her face. “April,” he exhales slowly; it could be her imagination, but he almost sounds near tears himself, “ever since this began, between us…I have been waiting for the day it would end.”

Her head snaps up, though she doesn’t remember looking down in the first place, “How…how could you think that?” she stares at him, furiously wiping away the tears. All this time, all the words spoken and promises made…the intimacies shared between them…and he’s been waiting for it all to end?

Donatello’s fingers close over hers, nudging them aside, then the mild chaff of his finger runs along her face, tears stolen away with a single gesture. “April,” he murmurs, “you are the most beautiful creature in existence; I said it once before, and I mean it now. There is nothing I would not do for you, nothing I wouldn’t give you if asked. …But the one thing I knew I couldn’t give you is the one thing you deserve, more than anything: a family. I just…I let myself live in the moment, every glorious moment we share, and not dwell on – or imagine – the day it would end. I knew it would come; it was a certainty, even one I never wanted to come about.”

His palm cups her chin; she obliges his request and meets his eye, albeit with no small reluctance. “April, this is an impossibility. Your genes and mine…this is not scientifically sound. There is no reason there should be…” he falters again, then he swallows and continues, “…life growing inside of you. A life… _I_ had a part in creating.”

“But there is.” She whispers.

“Yes,” he lets her take hold of his hand, “there is. And…the one thing I believed would be the catalyst for ending what we have built between us…is here. It’s here and real. And I…I’m happy.”

The breath leaves her lungs in a shuddering burst, and she lets herself melt into his arms, “Oh, Donnie…” she clutches at his shoulders, “Oh God…I’m terrified. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He has her in his arms and atop the span of his thighs, “It looks like we’re going to do the one thing we’re both terrible at: winging it.”

April laughs, a soft watery sound, and drops her head to his shoulder; after seven days of anxiety and insomnia, her body feels both relieved by the absence of this terrible weight and physically drained by a lack of sleep (not to mention, a few good meals). “Hopefully this won’t have the same result as us trying to mix titanium and concrete.”

“It wasn’t a failure.” Donatello murmurs into her hair, “We still can’t lift what’s left of the old laboratory table.”


	4. Atonement

“I’ve called over a dozen times, Karai.”

_More like a hundred._ “I know.”

“I suppose,” his tone is chilled, bordering on sub-arctic, “I should be touched by your gracious willingness to spare some time for me.”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

The comeback startles him; it’s a small victory, privately experienced without a betraying hint on her face, to see his eyebrows twitch upward and his mouth clench in a scowl. The one called Shredder, the great Oroku Saki, is otherwise nigh unflappable. Nothing surprises him. Nothing fazes him.

Except this, apparently.

Except her, now.

“Your time among those street-level imbeciles has done no favors, Karai.” Saki speaks very slowly, displeasure with her remark dripping from each word. “Their lack of manners has rubbed off on you.”

Dark eyebrows quietly lift. “A lack of deference towards you doesn’t translate as a lack of manners.”

The corners of his mouth drag downward in a way which is vaguely comical. Karai is sure it would be more so, were she not otherwise sapped of great thought, feeling, and emotion. A cursory glance in the bathroom mirror, prior to this visit, and the exchanged looks between prison guards, attested to just how dreadful she looks: black hair limp and hanging loose around her face instead of in usual confines; face pale and pinched in the absence of proper nutrition; dressed in jeans and some thrift-shop-donation sweater that’s about two sizes too big.

“Do I need to teach you,” his voice lowers dangerously, “to mind your tongue?”

“How do you propose to do that?”

His fist slams into the Plexiglas barrier. “Mind your tongue!”

“If you have a problem with my tongue,” Karai retorts; her temper stirs, simmering barely, beneath the stagnant waters of exhaustion, “then cut it out.”

She shoves back from the counter, from the man sitting on the other side of a glass barrier, and stands. The chair crashes to the floor, unprepared for the sudden change. The sound was probably enough to attract attention, but she wants to make sure of it. “Guard!”

It’s his turn to stand. “Don’t you _dare_ walk away from me, Karai!” Saki faintly spits, slamming hand against glass again. This time, the barrier wobbles. She is certain there were days wherein this outburst of temper would have shocked her into obedience, but she does not remember them beyond vague recollection; the kind of awareness one experiences after a dream. “You were nothing when I found you! A street rat half a step away from whoring herself! I _made_ you!”

The guard is there, one hand already extended like a gentleman, but Karai pauses a moment. Pauses, breathes, and turns back.

“You made a piece of me.” she says, softly. “And that piece has outlived its usefulness. As has your place in my life.”

She leaves the jailhouse and turns left at the first street. Five minutes later, it starts raining, which Karai supposes is simply appropriate. She hasn’t slept in a week, has only stomached water with bare essentials of food shoved past unwilling lips, and tried to scald herself alive in the shower this morning. It’s only fitting that the heavens should open and work to finish the job.

The street stretches on for half a mile before bottoming out into a small park. Hardly as grand as others in the area, it sports some aging playground equipment and two wooden benches; everything is in sore need for repair, a testament to the neglect suffered by this part of town. She walks across the weathered gravel, bypasses the bench, and sinks into one of three swings on the set. The chains creak, a sound muffled by pouring rain, but it supports her weight.

_“Say it again…and that’s it.”_

The world looks different through a veil of rain: colors slurred together; sounds muffled beneath the patter of droplets on concrete, dirt, and tree leaves; a chill heavy in the air penetrating through skin and bones. She wonders, perhaps, if she were to stay here, in this place, forever – day after day, until days turn to weeks and weeks to months – if the chill would become ice and immortalize her in this way, in this place.

_“Say it, and you seal the damn deal.”_

She’s heard freezing to death is the most painless; the cold simply lulls the body to sleep – a rest from which they never awaken.

_“You’re mine…”_

Should she, then, just close her eyes and go to sleep?

_“…and I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”_

Her legs are the catalyst for movement: away from the empty park to the far corner of pavement and concrete. Here, the two platforms form a man-made concave: an entrance into the city’s bowels where people don’t make a point of venturing. It’s just common sense. People don’t wander into the sewers, and into the paths beyond – places where only the original creators of this city imagined and have since been lost in the name of industrialism.

She doesn’t know where she’s going, and yet she feels she has always known the exact path her feet take her now.

The solitary tunnel opens into a sprawling series of identical underground pathways. Here, the air clears from the stale stink, and the air is absent its chilling damp. The obvious signs of habitation are present in decorations are diverse as those who call this hidden sanctuary home. A series of rooms branch off from the main hall, each a residence or serving some other purpose; towards the back, a much larger section which has been curtained off but from within which she can hear sounds of life.

This is not a place for her to be, and she is here without invitation. It doesn’t stop her from pulling the curtain back and stepping across yet another threshold. Here, she sees two of the four brothers engaged in training: Raphael with his beloved sai, Leonardo with one katana fending off his brother’s offensive strikes, and – watching from a distance – their sensei with eyes keenly examining every move.

It takes five minutes for her to be noticed. Were this an attach, she could have dispatched them both in a matter of seconds.

Were this an attack, she would have come armed.

The Sensei is first to take notice, and while his posture is wary, there is no immediate threat. Karai moves forward with a steadier stride, a more profound confidence, than she’s felt in days – weeks – maybe…maybe even years. Leonardo wields his katana with different intentions, but she accepts the threat with a deadened neutrality. If she is going to die, so be it.

“I will not seek atonement for the past.” She speaks to the rat as a father, for he commands his sons with far more authority than a general does his soldiers, “There is nothing to be gained in considering what was, but in what can be.”

Large amber eyes blink in slow consideration. “And what can be, between yourself and my sons?” he inquires in soft tones, “Your allegiance has been to the darker things of this world. My sons preserve the goodness, and fight that it may always exist no matter the opposition.”

“A truth which I neither dispute nor seek to alter.” She answers softly, “But instead look to carry upon my shoulders.”

This time, he blinks in surprise. “Then the affections Raphael spoke of, from his own heart, are true for yours?”

“Yes.” Karai lifts her head a bit higher in the face of this single perfect truth, “I am in love with your son. Whether or not I receive your approval is inconsequential; I will not leave his side.”

A silence follows; it feels heavier than before and yet somehow…not as she imagined. Of all the unbidden imaginings centered around this moment, this moment never presented as an option. To have to fight, perhaps even in the literal sense, for her love…this was the most obvious scenario imagined. But there is no battle cry ringing throughout stone walls, nor an ultimatum posed. In her peripheral, Leonardo regards her with suspicion but not a clear threat, and Raphael…

…Raphael simply gazes at her.

“Then my opinions are of no consequence.” The one named Splinter states, with no inflection towards the matter, “Why are you here, if you are without intention of honoring my thoughts or wishes with regard to my son?”

“Because your opinions,” she answers in the same tone, “your thoughts, and your wishes…they are of great consequence to your son.”

The amber eyes blink slowly, once more. “And you should place your own wants aside, risk rejection and perhaps worse, for the sake of my son’s own considerations?”

“I will, and I do.” Black strands fall loose into her eyes; she tosses them away with a careless gesture of fingers. “For that which is most precious to me, I am done with the face I wore when we first met, and the many faces I wore in the years before. Raphael has changed me, and if I am to seek anything from you – and from your sons – it is the chance to _show_ I have changed.”

“Very well.” The hesitation she expects (was bracing for, really) isn’t there; from the sharp jolt in Leonardo’s reactive movement, it’s clear the sudden concession was not just a surprise to her, “If it is your ambition to demonstrate this change of heart –” he pauses, then shakes his head, “– Permit me to clarify…this change of self, then the blessing to given.”

“Dad,” Leonardo speaks, a daring protest to his father’s declaration, “may I ask why you are so…eager to allow this?”

There is a mild reprimand in the sensei’s eyes, but his words are soft, “I will not uphold the practice of favoritism among my sons. As I trusted the judgment upon which you drew Celine – and Michelangelo, Angel – into our home, our family, so I trust Raphael’s judgment. If I cannot hold absolute faith in my sons’ evaluation of character, then I cannot hold myself upon the sacred mantle of fatherhood.”

His words are humbling, fill her with the blossoming warmth of relief and – yes, truly – joy. Joy, that foreign notion reserved for fairytales and whimsical tales spoken by children in the prime of innocence. Karai lowers herself to bended knee before Splinter’s seat: the same stance she once took with Shredder, but now with a true reverence with which she never beheld her old master. “Thank you…Sensei.”

His whiskers ascend in a gentle curve, “A title you once gave to Shredder, was it not?”

“Oroku Saki was a master. A general and tyrant.” Her head has not lifted from its respectful arch, but she feels his eyes on her like a brush of sunlight, “To be a Sensei, one must be a teacher. Through your son, I have seen the manner of teacher that you are.”

“And is it your wish to have this manner of teacher for yourself?”

“It is.”

“I see.” He begins, but conversation abruptly enters from behind, from behind the curtain, which cuts off his intended words. With barely a moment to cast an inquiring look in the offending direction, an answer arrives first with Michelangelo, Angel slung across the broad length of his shell with arms and legs wound around the front, and then Donatello follows while April takes slow steps at his side. The brunette looks absent some days’ worth of food and sleep, but there is an unmistakable lightness about her which makes the weary lines seem less distinct.

In the fleeting moment before Angel sees Karai, and abruptly closes the distance between them, it occurs that the mane of red hanging loose down her back has grown longer.

Ordinarily not a young lady of outward emotions, Angel nonetheless throws herself into Karai with arms weaving tight at her waist. No words follow, but a telling dampness at her shoulder speaks loud enough. Long fingers dip into the wild cascade of auburn and gently stroke, “You look well.”

“And you look like Hell.” Angel mutters, leaning back and furiously wiping at wet eyes. She jerks her head at April, adding, “Both of you.”

April’s lips quirk in what nearly passes as a smile, but fails a bit in the final execution. Instead, she takes the same uneasy steps forward, and then pulls Karai into the same embrace. Such a display from Angel, with whom she shares a less tumulus past, was expected – or at least more so than this. In the shock of the moment, Karai forgets to respond with words or physical action until April’s voice is soft in her ears.

“Thank you,” the slender fingers gently twist in the ratted material of Karai’s sweater, “for saving my life.”

Now, as if awakened by the words, Karai’s arms ascend and draw the other woman into a shared embrace. A shuddering exhale, perhaps as reciprocal as the encircling of arms, follows before they separate. Karai feels her lips twitch upward, a wet burning sensation at her eyes preceding the downward drip of tears. “You shouldn’t be exerting yourself so much.” She manages, “Not in your condition.”

“Told you.” Donatello says. It’s an odd bit of humor which feels inappropriate and yet feels so very necessary in this moment. April rolls her eyes, the third party in a private joke which the others do not understand.

“What condition?” Leonardo asks, half a demand, with eyes urgently darting back and forth from April to his brother, and occasionally over Karai. “April? Are you sick?”

“Not in the strictest definition.” April answers, and when she turns to face the rest of the family – her family, their family – her face may be wet with tears but the smile is radiant. “I hope you guys are ready to be uncles – and a grandfather,” she adds, to Splinter, “…because I’m pregnant.”

The shocked silence feels like a lead weight – for about five minutes, after which Raphael stands up and, with a meaty slap to Donatello’s shoulder, proclaims, “Hot _damn_ , Brother!”

“We’re gonna have little Donnies and Aprils!” Michelangelo nearly leaps through the ceiling, then proceeds to bounce throughout the dojo with wild abandon. If not for a well-placed sidestep on her part, he might have knocked Celine off her feet when she stepped through the curtain.

“I see April’s announcement has been well-received.” The blonde says; there is something about her countenance which doesn’t seem right. Leonardo, obviously more in tune with his lover’s mannerisms than others, comes to her side without pause.

“What is it?”

“I just got off the phone with Detective Valdez.” She answers quietly. A pause follows, then she releases a shuddering breath and lifts her head. “The forensic technician who handled hundreds of cases for the police department has been charged with manipulating evidence, and all the cases he handled are being reopened.”

She swallows, as if the next words are physically exhausting, and finishes with a weary, “My father is getting a new trial.”


End file.
